Such Sweet Sorrow
by our dancing days
Summary: for you and I are past our dancing days. / drabble collection.
1. i autographs

**notes: **A drabble series about how different canon pairings get together. I'm trying a different style... anyway, no idea how long they'll be, but I hope you enjoy them. Remember, I'd love to know what you think!

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

i. **autographs  
><strong>astoriadraco

Draco, whenever he signs autographs, changes his signature.

He laughs at the confusion. He doesn't know _why _people want his signature anyway - he's not a hero, far from it in fact. So he gets them back and watches them turn against each other.

"_Well, you must be lying! It doesn't look the same!"_

"I'm _not lying; _you _must be. It's _completely _different!" _It amuses him.

Until he's walking to his desk at work, at the Ministry, his black robes billowing behind him in some twisted version of a hero's cape. He can hear a commotion coming from where his secretary works, just outside his own office. There's a woman towering over the cowering assistant, her hands resting on the desk.

"Well, if he's not there, then I suppose I'll just have to _wait, _then, won't - oh. Mr Malfoy. Could I have a word with you?"

The woman's words are polite, but her tone is cutting. She's stunningly beautiful, with brown hair in ringlets and bright blue eyes that are darker than his own. She raises a curved eyebrow, leaving no room for him to deny what she wants.

"Of course, Miss..."

"Miss Greengrass." She walks past him, and into his office. Miss Greengrass surveys his office, and he gets the feeling that it's in distaste. "I'm here to enquire about certain... _signatures._" She pauses, as if daring him to interrupt. He doesn't.

"My little sister came home from Hogwarts yesterday, crying on the platform. Apparently, her friend's autograph was dissimilar from her own. I asked the boy, and apparently, he _did _in fact get yours personally - as did my sister. He wouldn't lie to me; he's a measly Hufflepuff and absolutely terrified of any and all Slytherins. I _therefore _drew the conclusion that you change your signatures. Is this correct?" He almost nods, but she holds up a hand to stop him. "I already know it is. It turns out that I am not as dumb or as spineless as other people, it seems."

She leans forward and, although she's quite a good few inches shorter than him, she manages to look intimidating.

"My sister is extremely upset. She's _eleven years old, _and I am a powerful enough person that you do not want to make me angry. Are we clear, Mr Malfoy?"

"Crystal," he bites out, and she gives him a shark like smile.

"I want that autograph. I want a _proper _autograph, with your proper signature. If not, I assure you that the entire Wizarding press will know about this by Monday. If you cooperate, I'll keep my findings between myself and my sister."

Any normal person, or Draco Malfoy on a normal day at least, would get her kicked out, get a restraining order or get someone to somehow throw her in Azkaban.

But no; instead Draco holds out a hand for her to shake despite knowing she already knows his name, and says, "Draco Malfoy." He flashes her his most charming smile. "Now, how about that autograph..."

He doesn't give her the time to be shocked, just takes her by the hand as asks, "Coffee?"


	2. ii silver lining

**notes: **Thanks to everybody who read the previous chapter!

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

ii. **silver lining**  
>lunarolf<p>

He meets her on a train to Quebec, of all places.

"Luna Lovegood," she tells him, holding out her hand. "I don't suppose that anyone's told you that you look an awful lot like your grandfather." And there it begins. They talk of wild, exotic animals and their schools days and Quebec, and they pointedly avoid mention of the wars and heroes, or lack thereof.

"You have very beautiful eyes," Rolf tells her in a moment of madness.

And they are beautiful. They're a clear grey-blue, so light that, at some angles, they appear simply silver. Her eyelashes are long and there are shadows underneath them and lines at the corners. They are wise eyes; liquid pools of the silver lining you find on clouds.

"Thank you," she replies to him airily. She folds the paper in her hand into a little origami phoenix. She picks it up, studies it, and mutters an incantation that turns the phoenix gold.

Performing a few more intricate charms, she raises the origami animal up to his eye-level, where it sits on the palm of her hand. Suddenly, it flies into the sky, beats its wings, and promptly bursts into glittering, shimmering flames.

"Oh dear," Luna says dejectedly. "That wasn't meant to happen." One more phoenix lasts long enough to start singing, but it explodes after hitting a rather miraculous high C. So instead, they play a simple, childish word game.

"Christmas," she offers, and Rolf smiles.

"Mistletoe," he counters, and Luna laughs, blushing. He could listen to her laugh forever - it even sounds silver, like chiming Christmas bells or sickles falling.

"Nargles," she replies, and she laughs harder at his odd look. "They infest mistletoe plants; always be wary that their nests don't fall on you." Their game stops soon after, because they are laughing too hard to properly form a response.

The woman on the train smiles at him, with her halo of gold for hair and silvery pools of light for eyes. She tells him she'll see him again, then takes the pair of reading glasses that had been residing on her head for the entirety of the train journey and puts them on to walk away.

He sighs after her, then whistles as he wonders away, secure in the knowledge that Luna Lovegood won't get away that easily, despite the cold and the dark and the frost. Every cloud has a silver lining, and all that.


	3. iii iced butterbeer

**notes: **Thanks to Indigo Lily, my lone reviewer...

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

iii. **iced butterbeer**  
>ginnyharry<p>

They start out again.

"Hi. I'm Ginny," she tells him, and he bites back the urge to laugh, especially when he sees her fighting the same impulses. He holds out his hand to her, and she shakes it gently. He can feel her vibrating with controlled laughter.

"Nice to - um - meet you, Ginny. I'm Harry. Iced Butterbeer, right?"

"Harry, you're not supposed to know that," she hisses out of the side of her mouth, and he blushes at his own stupidity.

"Lucky guess?" He wages, and she taps him on the arm with a smile and sends him away to the bar to get their drinks. She slides into the booth - their usual, she thinks - and picks at her fingernails. When Harry returns, he smirks as he notices her childhood-long habit.

"So, Harry," Ginny says after clearing her throat. "Tell me a bit about yourself."

"Well," he starts, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "For a living, I'm the Conqueror of the Dark Lord, although I _am _training to be an Auror in my spare time." She laughs heartily. "My favourite colour is blue, I adore pumpkin pie and Butterbeer, I play - or, at least, used to play - Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and... that's about it."

"I suppose I'll follow your lead," Ginny tells him, winking. "I play Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, my favourite colour is green, I love chocolate frogs and _iced _Butterbeer, and I'm desperately in love with Harry James Potter."

"Oops," Harry says, swallowing his Butterbeer. "I forgot that last part."

"Can't say I noticed."

"No?"

"Nah."

They laugh heartily, and talk for hours in the slowly empting Three Broomsticks. They remember old stories, tell each other everything they missed out in sixth year, and almost make up for lost time. They give up the act of not knowing each other - because they do, and well - until the very end.

"It was charming to meet you, Ginny," Harry comments, pulling out Ginny's chair and waiting for her to stand. She blushes and, again, curses her Weasley complexion. Harry only chuckles.

"Likewise, Harry," she replies, "although, I don't think I'll be Flooing you anytime soon." She puts the money on the table for her iced Butterbeer and walks away, not even looking back to see Harry staring after her. Only when she reaches the door does she call out, "Well? What're you waiting for?"

Harry shakes his head, and follows her out into the blistering cold of Christmas Eve, glad he opted for a normal, warming Butterbeer.


	4. iv fallen from grace

**notes: **Again, cheers to my three reviewers, Indigo Lily, rainy. day. dreams and mit1 - hope everyone who reads this likes it. Enjoy.

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

iv. **fallen from grace**  
>hermioneron<p>

"Y-y-y-y-"

"Ronald Weasley, is anything of _sense ever _going to come out of your mouth?" Hermione asks, raising a dark eyebrow at the stuttering man.

"You look drop-dead gorgeous," he finally breathes, looking his girlfriend appreciatively up and down. She blushes, and leans down so that her hair covers most of her face.

"I'll take that as a no to the sense comment, then," she mutters, and he laughs, taking her arm and steering her towards the canopy that rests magically above them. She is dressed in cream and gold, and Ron thinks that she's never looked more angelic.

"You nervous?" he asks, surveying the crowds finally pouring into the expanded space.

"Nervous?" she squeaks in return. "I'm terrified! My best friends are getting married! It's my first wedding! I feel as stressed as though it were _my own _wedding!" She gushes, her hair already frazzling in the hot summer heat.

"Breathe, 'Mione, it's going to be fine. It's Harry and Ginny, for god's sake. Plus, Mum will murder anyone who even attempts to get it wrong, so all distractions and imperfections will be subtly removed."

"Not helping, Ronald."

"Somehow, I got that," he joked, and her chocolate eyes glared. "If this helps, though," and he gives her a light kiss. She smiles weakly back.

Suddenly, Hermione turns to where Harry is tightening the neck of his formal black and cream dress robes, looking as nervous as hell. She lunges herself at him, and Ron represses the urge to roll his eyes. It's an amazing display of self-control. "You alright, mate?"

"No," Harry replies honestly, tugging at his sleeves. "I'm bloody terrified." Ron cracks a grin.

"Harry James Potter," Hermione hisses, turning her glare onto full. "If you so much as _consider _backing out and leaving poor Ginny at the altar, mark my words, you will _regret _the day you _ever _got your Hogwarts letter and met _me. _Are we clear?"

He thinks she looks like an angel, fallen from grace to avenge mankind. He sighs wistfully.

Turning, he sees Ginny hiding behind a tent set up for the food and drinks of the reception. She's breathing deeply in and out of a brown, Muggle paper bag. He raises an eyebrow at her, and takes a seat next to her on the grass.

"So... big day, huh?"

"You're such an _arse, _Ron," she replies, pulling her face away from the bag. He raises his hands in surrender.

"Don't shoot the best man, Gin, it doesn't call for a perfect wedding. And why are you breathing into a Muggle paper bag anyway? You're not ill, are you?"

"Somebody said it might help," she mutters. "And of course I'm bloody ill. It's my wedding day. I have been stressing over this for _months, _been planning this for _years, _and it's all for these few hours. I am going insane. I feel like Mum when Charlie's coming home and she wants to pull a big party and we end up having pizza. I _can't _have pizza instead of a wedding, Ron, I _can't,"_ she sobs.

"Well then," he says as the wedding music starts to play. "I suppose we'd better get this wedding started and hide the pizza then, shouldn't we?"

She laughs and waits outside of the room, tapping her foot noisily and standing next to Dad. Ron takes Hermione's arm as they walk down the aisle together, best man and maid-of-honour. He flashes a grin at George, who sticks his tongue out in retaliation.

"Never thought I'd be doing this," he whispers, and she giggles.

"Tell me about it." There's a pause and only the wedding music, their footsteps and angels falling silently from grace can be heard. "Are you nervous?" Ron only laughs.


	5. v corruption

**notes: **Thumbs up to our reviewers - Indigo Lily, rainy. day. dreams, mit1 and DrinkingAlcoholicRainbows! Thumbs down to our alert-ers - lil manny and L-U-N-A-654 - sigh. Generosity is celebrated this Christmas season! Also, seriously, DrinkingAlcoholicRainbows, how did you know what this pairing would be? Insane. Enjoy!

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

v. **corruption**  
>nevillehannah<p>

She's not overly pretty, and he's not overly handsome. She's not overly smart, and he's not overly witty. There's just something about the two of them, though, that makes them outshine anybody who is prettier, or smarter, and that's what draws them to one another.

She's only working at the Leaky Cauldron when Neville comes in after his first year at Hogwarts. She eyes him over the rim of the pint glass she's cleaning.

He looks over, and catches her. She blushes, remembering a time when all she did was blush, when she had her chubby face and blonde pigtails. Neville watches her quietly for a moment, as if figuring out who she is. He calls her over, ten minutes later.

"You know, Hannah, for a moment there I thought you were going to act as though you didn't know me," he tells her, flashing her a grin. It's very un-Neville like, and she finds she rather likes it.

"Oh, I couldn't do that, Neville. It's pretty darn near impossible."

She looks left and right shiftily, then leans forward to whisper in his ear, "I get off in half an hour. D'ya reckon you'll still be here?"

"Well, for you, I think I might," he says sincerely. "You don't think you could bring me another Butterbeer, though? One year at Hogwarts again, and I'm already sick of Rosmerta's brew compared to yours. I used to like it as well. You've corrupted me!" He cries dramatically, drawing the attention of some lingering eyes. Hannah blushes, again, and pats his arm consolingly. He apologises, wonders how she puts up with his antics, and tells her to put her feet up. She doesn't, of course, but it's nice to think he cares.

They talk for hours, long after the pub's day-time visitors have left and the people drowning their sorrows wonder in. Their laughs are shrill and high over the other mumbled words, but they don't care.

"So... what's with the change in confidence, _Professor Longbottom?" _Neville cringes and Hannah chuckles to herself.

"Well, you, really," Neville tells her honestly, and she blinks up at him in surprise. "I saw how confident you were after the DA, in fifth year, and then when we came back to retake our final year... it kind of gave me hope." He flashes her another wry grin. "How cheesy a pick up line did that sound?"

"Extremely cheesy. Worse than Edam, I'd wager."

"Drat," he says. "I don't suppose it worked, though?" He asks, and suddenly he does look hopeful, all wide hazel eyes and parted lips and Hannah just can't say no.

"It... might have worked," she confirms, picking up his empty Butterbeer glass without a word, refilling it and sitting back down, crossing her leg over her knee and smirking slightly at Neville's bemused expression. "On the house. You're corrupting me, Neville Longbottom."

"Oh. Oh, right," Neville says, distracted. "I don't suppose you want to meet up on Thursday, do you?"


	6. vi charms

**notes:** Thank you so much to the reviewers! I worship you! Now, I know this isn't cannon, and I apologise, but I think most can admit that it's pretty much applicable to the books - I mean, J. K.'s basically _screaming _at us that Albus is a Slytherin and Rose/Scorpius is inevitable! Well, maybe; enjoy.

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

vi. **charms**  
>scorpiusrose<p>

"I've heard about you," she tells him, raising an eyebrow in defiance. A crowd has gathered around the first years, some cheering and some simply waiting for the outcome. Rose internally is glad that no teachers have arrived yet.

"Rose, don't," Albus says quietly from the crowd, seemingly caught between his cousin and his Housemate.

"For the sake of this argument, I'm going to pretend I haven't heard about _you," _the boy drawls back. She vaguely notices that his Slytherin tie has come loose slightly.

"By all means," she replies mockingly. "Don't hold back."

"I wouldn't, but I get the feeling that you're not worth it." He steps back, and surveys her. "You must get your bushy hair from your mother; colouring from your father, I'm supposing?" He laughs, at her, not with her, but she doesn't seem to mind.

She studies him and sighs. "I reckon that ego you're carrying around is all yours." The crowd laugh and he glowers.

"Stay away from me, _Weasley," _he sneers, but then he appears to reconsider. "But, I'll tell you a secret..." He draws her closer with a finger, and almost against her will, she leans towards him so that his lips are near her ear. He smirks. "There's this miracle thing people use nowadays... it's called... _shampoo."_

And with that, he walks away chortling to himself. He doesn't expect her to run after him, and most certainly doesn't expect her to tackle him and almost knock him to the ground.

"I'm Rose Weasley," she says, holding out her hand. "Who are you?"

He stares at her, almost blankly, before replying, "Scorpius Malfoy. I thought you knew who I was."

"Nope," she says, shaking her heard. "I said I've heard about you. Really, it was just about that you've already won 5 points for Slytherin - nothing noteworthy, I'm afraid. We have Charms class next, don't we? We'd better hurry if we don't want to be late."

Rose drags Scorpius down the corridors, and he lets himself laugh at this new girl's antics, and lets himself fall in with her charms. And Father said that Weasleys lacked class; Scorpius, so far, was inclined to finally disagree.

"You don't know what you've got yourself into, mate," Albus tells Scorpius after he follows his - friends? - to Charms. The boy chuckles.

"I think I have a fairly good idea," he replies, and that's where it begins.


	7. vii summer

**notes: **Thanks to all of our wonderful readers, reviewers, favouriters and alerters (yes, in that order!). You guys are amazing - enjoy!

our dancing days

vii. **summer**  
>victoireteddy<p>

She is summer personified.

They met - proper introductions and all - in summer. He was six and she was four, and he walked up to her, held out his hand, and said, "I'm Teddy Lupin, and you're small." It was the start of great things.

She joined him in Hogwarts in 2011, when he was thirteen and she was eleven. She walked up to him his time, covered his amber eyes with her hands, and she whispered into his ear, "I'm Victoire Weasley, and your hair is blue."

That's when they met, not just as friends, but as Housemates too.

He saw her properly in summer, when time seemed to stop and they were four and eleven and adults all at the same time. He was sixteen and she was fourteen, and she was wearing the eccentric Muggle clothes she had for emergencies, as she called them.

"Victoire?" he had asked, completely hesitant. "How old are you - exactly?"

She looked surprised, and slightly annoyed, by the question. She crossed her arms over her chest, and replied, "Old enough." She crossed her long legs and Teddy just _might _have drooled a bit. But _dear Mordred and Morganna _don't tell Harry or Bill or, Merlin have mercy, _Fleur _that.

But when he's nineteen and she's seventeen and summer is starting to slip away from them, they meet properly for the first time. He only means to say goodbye.

Instead, he gets a melancholic look in his eye that Victoire fails to notice, and says, "I'm Teddy Lupin, and I think I'd like to kiss you now." She turns to stare at him in surprise, still in her eccentric Muggle clothes far too warm for the season - because it's _still summer _for them.

"Well, Teddy, don't hang about," she eventually replies, and they're kissing and there's fireworks - or maybe it's James' start-of-year prank - and she even _tastes _of summer.

"Summer," he breathes.

"It's only a first kiss and you're already cheating on me with another girl," she teases, and again he wraps his arms around her and her fingers play in his aquamarine hair and there it is again - _summer. _


	8. viii scatterbrained

**notes. **Cheers to everybody's who has read so far - enjoy!

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

viii. **scatterbrained**  
>audreypercy<p>

"Oh! Oh - I'm sorry! I am _so _sorry, it's my first day, and I've already spilt coffee over you - do you want me to get a cloth or... or some burn cream, or something?" Percy is just beginning to wonder what a Muggle is doing working at the Ministry of Magic when she hits her palm against her forehead.

"You're a _witch, _Audrey, get your head screwed on the right way!"

She casts a few spells onto his suit where the stain slowly filters out and he breathes out in relief as the sting of the burn on his chest leaves.

"It's not your fault, I really wasn't looking where I was going..." he motions to the folders in his hand, safely out of reach.

"No, no, no, I shouldn't really have been - um - running in the corridors on my first day anyway. I'm Audrey; I'm the new secretary to... Mr Weasley?" She looks up at Percy, cutely confused and curious. "You don't happen to know where I can find him, do you?"

His very first impression of his new secretary is... scatterbrained, pure and simple.

She starts to peer around his shoulder and almost wonders off when he calls out.

"Well, turn around about 180 degrees, Audrey, and take about five or six steps forward and I think you'll find him." She does exactly as he asks and comes face to face, again, with Percy.

"Merlin, I'm an idiot, aren't I?" The woman says, obviously flustered and running a hand through her short, dark blonde hair. She straightens, brushes down her suit jacket, and looks him in the eye. "I'm Miss Kemp, sir, and I'm your new secretary." She looks apologetically at him. "Trainee, I'm afraid. I'm hoping for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department, you see."

"Indeed?" he inquires, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I _promise, _Mr Weasley, that I'm not usually this scatterbrained, just a hectic morning. If you could - um - lead the way, then I'll get straight to work."

"That's not necessary, Miss Kemp," he tells her with a smile, and her hazel eyes widen in more bewilderment as he takes her stiff form by the arm and leads her to the office cafeteria. "Why don't we go and get you another cup of coffee first?"


	9. ix smile

**notes: **Thanks _so _much to all of you who've reviewed - this is another drabble that I hope you love as much as I do. Yes, _that _much; enjoy!

WARNING: Possible over-use of the word "smile." You have been warned.

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

ix. **smile**  
>billfleur<p>

Bill sits at his desk every morning at ten to eight, and takes his coffee (black, two sugars) almost with a pinch of salt. He rearranges papers and answers Floo calls and does it all with a hardened smile. He's not scarred - yet - and he may even be handsome, but as far as he's concerned, he's nothing.

She floats in late every morning and takes her herbal tea (some French flavour) and laughs and works and practises her English with a less-scornful smile than she once wore.

And she's still beautiful.

"Excuse me?" There's a tap on his shoulder. "Mister Weezley?"

"Oh," he says, looking up and smiling at her. She looks rather frazzled, her hair slowly coming out of her perfect, professional bun and her skin glowing less than usual. "Miss Delacour. How can I help you?"

"Zis is... rather embarrassing, Mister Weezley. You see, I 'ave been watching you, and you seem so _nice... _and you 'ave 'elped me with my Eenglish so much, and I theenk zat I would like to... 'ow do you say? Go out on a date with you."

For the record, "dumb-struck" is not usually a word used to describe William Weasley. However, it seems Bill always makes exceptions for Fleur.

"I... yes, yes of course. I'd love to, Miss Delacour."

"Please, Mister Weezley. Call me Fleur," she says, smiling widely and perfectly at him. He blinks.

"Well, Fleur, I insist that you call me Bill. Everybody else does," he tells her with a wide, almost shy smile. Fleur nods, confidence regains, and Bill has the feeling that this is the first time Fleur has had to ask somebody out herself, rather than let her Veela charm do the talking for her. However, she takes his hand and kisses his bruises and battered knuckles gently.

"It would be my pleasure, Bill. 'Ow is Thursday lunchtime?"

"Thursday would be perfect," he replies, and she smiles again, before gliding back to her part-time office on the second floor. Honestly, he _was_ planning to meet Charlie on Thursday, but his brother can wait.

He just talked to Fleur Delacour. He just got asked out by Fleur Delacour. _He_ has a _date_ with _Fleur_ _Delacour_.

"You alright, mate?" His greying friend and workmate, Lucian Hart, says from beside him with a wry grin and a less-than-appropriate wink. He nudges Bill, but honestly, somebody could punch him right now and he truly wouldn't feel a single thing.

"She really does have a lovely smile," he says, and he takes a sip of his coffee (black, two sugars) with an easy smile.


	10. x one

**otes:** Our aim is 20 reviews, because they might persuade me to hurry up with the next chapter... oh, who am I kidding? Just enjoy.

our dancing days

x. one  
><strong>mollyarthur<strong>

There are seventy years of Molly&Arthur.

They first meet when they are eleven; two Gryffindors as fiery as their hair who might've clashed if they hadn't shared a joke that first day. They're each other's _one. _And maybe it's a little rushed, but their entire lives will be like that, so they might as well get used to it.

They get married at the age of twenty-one. Because they're twenty-one and selfish, and twenty-one and scared, and this is their one chance.

Their final son is born when they're thirty-one. He's feisty and perfect and he's not the only one, but he's not _Ginerva Molly Weasley, _the girl that could've been. Molly&Arthur will love him, though, because that's who they are.

They're seeing their son off at the platform when they're forty-one, and "_Mum, is that Harry Potter?" _And "_You've got dirt on your nose, Ronald!" _That's when their comfortable, feisty little family begins the end of their era.

When they're fifty-one, they're seeing their daughter getting married, just because her and her saviour couldn't wait. It reminds Molly too much of Bill and Fleur, but Arthur sees themselves in the newly printed wedding photographs.

On Molly's sixty-first birthday, they have to come to terms with the fact that little Victoire is going to Hogwarts and this is their one new generation. They're not just parents anymore.

And it's almost odd to think that they had all once gotten on the same one train.

On Arthur's seventy-first birthday, the Burrow is empty of children and grandchildren alike, and they are allowed to sit in silence. And mourn.

They first meet when they are eleven; at the age of eighty-one, they part. Molly whispers a seventy-year old joke into his hearing aid and the old man chuckles in his armchair. They're each other's one, and finally they are allowed to watch the world come, and go, and they don't have to rush.

Seventy years of Molly&Arthur have come to a close. Arthur Weasley lasts only one vivid hour after his wife's death, before he joins her on their next great adventure.


	11. xi mirror image

**Notes: **Would anybody think less of me if I said I won't update until 20 reviews? ;) Thanks so much for all of the support - enjoy!

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

**mirror image  
><strong>xi. georgeangelina

When Angelina first sees George on the 2nd July 1999, standing outside of a mirror shop - all shapes, all sizes, all spells - in Diagon Alley, she has to blink twice. Because suddenly there is Fred&George, and the last fourteen months _have not happened. _

But then George looks at her, and though it is less noticeable now than it once was and his hair is longer to hide it, she still sees his missing ear as clearly as he sees Fred is just his reflection in the mirrors.

They get talking, and maybe their conversation is less joking than it was before, and maybe it holds a semblance of remembrance, but it is natural; usual.

Then George invites her round for a coffee, and she can't say no even if she wants to. Even if he is an almost-mirror image of Fred, his eyes are an almost-mirror image of hers; they are hopeful, and melancholic and, _"Please?" _She laughs and follows him like it is natural too.

Soon, his mirror image becomes simply his own.

Later, when they're actually getting somewhere, he asks the question. "Do you love me?" There's no emphasis on the _you, _or the _love, _but on the _me, _as though she still loves Fred, and therefore, his mirror image.

Apart from that fact that George isn't Fred. George has dulled a bit over the years, perhaps, but he still has a great sense of humour compared to Fred's great sense of utter nonsense. George is bright where Fred was blinding, and he is sweet when Fred was so sweet, he was _bitter. _People are always under the impression that Fred and George were one being, one entity, a mirror image of each other, but Angelina has always known better.

"I love George Weasley," Angelina replies.

They get married in the Burrow's back garden, where Molly is banned from preparations and everybody can wear whatever the hell they want.

There aren't any mirrors on the walls of their flat for a long time (eventually, though, there are), and maybe it's a long time before George accepts his reflection as his own (he does though, in the end), and maybe Angelina sometimes has her doubts (not so much anymore). But they're happy.

Merlin, are they happy.


	12. xii chocolate box

**Notes: **30 reviews for the next chapter? Is that okay? I hope you enjoy this one - it's been a long time in the making. It's somewhat sad, but don't view the first half as Lily/James bashing, it's really not. I adore them!

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><p><span>our dancing days<span>

**chocolate box**  
>xii. lilyjames<p>

His chocolate box fantasy has been seven years in the making.

James Potter always has a different, rose-coloured view of romance. All chocolate-box-cottages and chocolate-box-romances and chocolate-box-hearts, and did you know, he's never really been a fan of chocolates. Maybe that's where he went wrong the first time.

He doubts it.

He's always written her poetry - not Shakespeare or Byron or Tennyson - and smiled at her - charming, sweet, but not stunning - and held her hand as if to say she's _mine -_ not as if to say _I think she's mine, so I'm going to hang on for as long as I can before she slips away and-_

But he's getting ahead of himself.

James is arrogant, immature, insufferable, and an optimist, but Lily is somewhat stuck up, emotional, selfish, and a pessimist. Maybe they're perfect for each other, if only to save them from the rest of the world.

Lily Evans has always been a realist. Responsibility and annoyance and maturity, and did you know, she's always liked chocolate. Maybe that's where she stumbled. She thinks so.

She's always turned her nose up at his gifts - not accepted them with grace and poise like a _nice _girl - and scowled at him - scathing, demeaning, but not beautiful - and slapped him as if to say _you're a jerk- _not as if to say _I'm a horrid, horrible person but I'm _me _and I'm the only one that can get broken by _my _mistakes and why can't you, you lovely, charming, sweet, _beautiful _boy understand that and-_

But she's running her mouth again.

Lily is kind, beautiful, powerful, and a red-head, but James is charming, handsome, influential, and a Potter.

So, in the end, when all conclusions are drawn and they finally see what's been hiding under their noses, he's not so perfect and not so realistic, and she's not so graceful and not so sweet. But he's charming and he really does love her, and she's kind and she can't help but love him.

"I'm not one of your chocolate-box-girls, you know, James," Lily tells him with a raise of her fiery eyebrows.

"Who cares?" He asks with a laugh and a shrug. "I'll still love you. Forever and ever and ever..." And his poetry's not Byron and she really does hate gifts, but James is right: who cares? Not them.


	13. xiii guests

**Notes: **A whole _month? _What was I _thinking? _Here is a chapter for you from the point of view of possibly one of my favourite characters in the series. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p><span>our dancing days<span>

xiii. **guests  
><strong>luciusnarcissa

People always think that pureblood witches areornaments, trinkets, to be kept at their husbands' sides, guests in their own houses. They arrange parties and spoil their pureblood children while the nanny takes care of the harder jobs and they dote on the husbands that they _know _are sleeping around behind their backs.

Then again, in Narcissa's opinion, a large majority of the world has a habit of being undeniably _moronic. _

She loves him.

Of course, when Narcissa was straight out of school - seventeen, engaged, and elegantly beautiful - he had seemed _perfect. _He was a pureblood Slytherin with the looks and charms to match. Back at Hogwarts, they were _the _couple.

At all those horrid pureblood parties at which they are guests, they still are.

He never says it, though.

Narcissa pretends he does, of course, when he is half-asleep and his murmurings are unintelligible, she pretends that Lucius issaying "I love you." It is a nice memory, one that keeps her sane and safe and warm when her own sister won't look her in the eyes anymore.

But she is foolish; she is young and she is free and she is, honest to Merlin, _in love._

"Darling," Lucius drawls, flashing Narcissa his most charming, most beautiful, and most fatal smile, "the guests are waiting."

Narcissa blinks, and looks down at the tray of drinks balancing on the tip of her wand.

"You spent so much _time _arranging this party, dear; surely you should be more involved?" She nods frantically, and smiles up at her husband. "The nanny is looking after Draco - that toy wand is no use, I believe we need to get him a proper one, not those preposterous starter wands."

"Of course," Narcissa replies slowly.

"I have a business meeting tomorrow night," Lucius says offhandedly, "so I'll be back late." He sneers at her. "I'd recommend you going to see dear Bella at the weekend also - I won't be here."

"Of course not," she snaps back suddenly, earning a perfectly raised eyebrow and an even more cutting sneer. "Wouldn't want your wife to find one - or maybe two? - of your mistresses sleeping in her bed, now, would you?"

"The guests are waiting," he replies sharply, turning to leave the room. Just before he does so, however, he faces her with a cruel smile. "I'm surprised you think so little of me, Narcissa."

"Surprised? Why?" Narcissa scoffs.

"Why would I have multiple mistresses if I have you?" Lucius leans closer. "I do love you, but the guests are getting rowdy, darling."


End file.
